


Repeat Business

by akelios



Series: Odd Jobs [4]
Category: Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Breathplay, Dresden Files Kink Meme, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-28
Updated: 2012-04-28
Packaged: 2017-11-04 11:36:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akelios/pseuds/akelios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some needs can only be met at the hands of someone you trust. Even if you're supposed to be enemies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Repeat Business

We stare at one another over the expanse of the room, Harry seated uneasily on the edge of the couch, myself resting more comfortably in the cushioned chair. Nathan had done as he thought best and vanished into the kitchen to give us a moment to ourselves.

“You don't have to do this Harry.”

“I said I would!” Harry goes pale, paler rather, but his dark eyes grow heavy as stone, resolution tightening his jawline. “If you're sure, I mean.”

“I'm certain.”

“Okay. Okay, fine. Let's-” He rises, finally removing his hideous coat and laying it over the back of the couch. The move leaves him in dress shirt and jeans, an urban cowboy down to the leather gloves he wears, the ones that Dr. Butters had given him for Christmas the year before. Harry looks down at his hands, eyes narrowing at the blackness that encloses them. “I've- it's just that I _know_ what it- it _hurts_ and it's terrifying and I don't get why you would-”

“Yes, it's frightening.” I stand and strip out of my robe, leaving myself naked before Harry and his fears. “That's part of the appeal, the combination of trust and fear. The pain that entwines with the pleasure until one can't exist without the other. This isn't like what you've experienced Harry. You don't really want to hurt me, do you? Wring my neck and murder me with your own two hands?”

“Sometimes.” Harry speaks quietly, still looking down at his hands. I look as well, anticipation making it hard for me to breathe already. “No. Not really.”

“Then do this for me.” I reach into the drawer of the side table and bring out the envelope. Plain and bulging with the weight of its contents, I ponder how such a small thing can be so powerful as I carry it to Harry, sliding it onto his upturned palms. This is the only way I can have him, a few hours at a time. One day it won't be enough, I won't have anything left that Harry will accept. He will no longer be desperate, no longer have nothing with which to feed his monster pets or to pay to keep his death trap on the road. I don't know what I will do then, how I will be able to go back to wanting and never being able to have. His fingers curl around it thoughtlessly, crushing it with careless strength. “You won't hurt me. Not like this.” Nathan reenters the room. We both ignore him.

Harry finally looks at me again, color rising to the lines of his cheek bones. “Cujo stays in the room.”

“Yes.”

“Right.” He slides the envelope into one of his coat pockets. When he turns back to me his face is closed off, unreadable. “The chair.”

“Yes.” I leave him, returning to the side of the chair I'd claimed as my own. My fingers slide into the pocket of my robe, curling around the heavy blue marble there. I clench my fist around it tightly, shaking with the effort and my growing excitement. Harry strips out of his clothes with the quick efficiency that he always displays when he isn't trying to be seductive. He throws them into a jumble with his coat, leaving only the gloves. 

I watch him come for me, his steps slow and sure, no sign of the hesitation and worry that had been there moments ago. That still had to be there. Harry circles me, a habit that I wasn't certain he had fully registered as such, before stepping into my side. One hand cool against the hot skin of my back, the leather sticky and heavy almost immediately. The other slides over my shoulder, cupping the length of my neck and gliding up to cradle my jaw. I fight to keep my breathing deep and even, the knowledge that I would shortly need that self control making it nearly impossible to hold onto it.

“Gloves?”

“No.” My voice cracks and I ignore the flash of shame that kindles within me at that sign of weakness. It doesn't matter. Harry knows where my weaknesses are, all of them. “Just your hands.” I lean into his grasp, resting more of my weight on the hand beneath my jaw. It forces my head back, stretching out my neck. Displaying it.

Harry says nothing as he releases me, staying close enough that I can feel the heat and the brush of wind his movements make. He slides the gloves from his hands slowly, tugging at them just in the periphery of my vision. I watch without turning, without feeling myself breathe. Harry's hands are huge, long and elegant. There are scars on them, monuments to his life that I have traced and memorized over the years.

The cut along the back of his right hand where a thrown knife, not one of my own, had barely missed the man Harry was protecting. Tiny craters and grooves from where he has spilled countless hot potions while plying his trade. The star burst shaped scar at the base of his thumb from where a ricocheted shard of concrete pierced him. 

I watch Harry finish undressing and I imagine those hands, so familiar and so strong, wrapped around my throat. Harry kneeling above me, his face a mask of anger and lust. He would use the weight of his body to pin me down, my knives gone, my weapons spent so that it was just muscle against muscle. I would lose, would snarl and curse until those hands found my neck, fingers cradling the back in an almost tender embrace, forcing the vulnerability of my windpipe up into the unyielding pressure of his thumbs.

“Ready?”

I say nothing, giving him only a quick nod. Harry sucks in a breath in a rush, the noise loud in the relative silence of the room. Somewhere to our right Nathan settles onto the couch, watching. Guarding us both.

The first touch of his hand against the back of my neck is tentative, afraid. His palm heavy against me, the breadth of his hand easily covering the span of muscle and bone. Fingers curl around the side of my throat, pressure against the pulse that thudded so close beneath my skin. They don't quite reach around to the front, where I want them. My throat aches for that pressure to be where I need it, pressing in gently at first, then harder, cutting me off from the world around me. 

His thumb brushes against the bottom of my ear and I shiver, my erection rising to bob and scrape over the soft fabric of the chair. It strokes and torments me as I breathe. Harry shifts behind me, his own breathing uneven and too fast. He bends me forward, the arm of the chair pressing hard into my stomach, making it impossible for me to take a full breath even before Harry leans his weight into me.

I roll my neck, letting him feel the play of muscle beneath his hand. Harry thrusts against me, his growing length sliding along the inside of my thighs, sticky already but not hard enough. His fingers move on my throat, stretching and tickling over the soft skin until the gentle press of them is centered over the ridge of my airway.

His thumb presses hard into the back of my neck, a singular point of pressure that urges me forward, to arch my throat into the non-existent tightness in front of me. I groan and drag in a deep breath, letting it echo wet and loud through the room. Harry shudders against me, his chest resting against my back, pinning me.

Slowly, our breathing begins to match, the only way that I can get in a significant portion of air beneath his weight. Harry's breath puffs out against the top of my head, hot and then cool, making me shiver and wriggle beneath him. He laughs and the hand around my throat squeezes a little harder, finally beginning to fulfill its promise.

I swallow hard against the new resistance, twisting my throat in his hand. It's good, but not enough, not at the right spot. Harry rocks against me, his other hand crushing my wrist in his grip. He is hard against the back of my thighs, slick and eager.

“Harder.” My voice is a grating rasp, arousal and the pressure making it sound alien to my own ears. Harry bites at my shoulder and kicks my feet apart, forcing me off balance and easing his own path. His hand tightens, forcing a cough out of me on my next breath, pressure beginning to build in my cheeks, my face heating up. Still not enough.

I twist my wrist in his grip, fingers scrambling against his skin until he lets go. Before he can ask the question I hold up my other hand, still clenched tightly around the marble, the center of the universe. Then I grab the wrist of his free hand and bring it to my throat, pressing the hesitant limb into position.

Another 'Okay' from him, whispered against the back of my head and then Harry's hands are clenched tightly around my throat, my fingers still grasping at one wrist as he presses in. I can feel the muscles in his arm bunch and flex, track the progress of his strength through them. His hands are scalding hot against my skin, his chest and hips crushing me even as he pulls back, changing our angle. I dig my heels into the carpet, my fingers into his wrist until I feel the skin break beneath them.

I can still breathe, my chest heaving as I fight the welcome grip around my neck, my hips bouncing as I twist and strain. Harry curses and slams me forward again, his grip loosening slightly as he drives the air from me with the weight of his body. I swear at him through swollen lips, everything too fast, moving to the frantic pace of my pulse.

Two free breaths, air cold and cutting in my lungs, and then Harry is inside of me, his hands iron tight on me, choking off my cry. I rut back against him, my fingers tightening around the marble again, branding the shape of it into my palm. Harry shouts for the both of us, curses falling from his lips like petals from a dying flower. 

I claw at him, catching my own skin as I do, heat blossoming beneath his hands. There is nearly no air, finally, blessedly, nothing but the rush of blood in my ears, trapped and fighting to move, to resume the life giving path that it knows. My cock throbs, growing harder and more insistent as the vacuum in my lungs expands, hungry beasts inside of my chest clawing and screaming to escape.

Harry pulls out in the first rocking thrust, easing his grip on my throat as he does. A single draw of air whistles down into me, not enough to ease the pain, just enough to heighten my awareness of it, of the terrible unnatural _lack_ inside of me and then it is gone, his hands killing tight again.

I fight him, unable to stop myself, my body unable to accept what I want. Harry takes my blows, only slacking his grip when he chooses. A precious reprieve just before the blackness eats my vision, and then that wonderful tightness again, wringing life and pleasure out of me. My body flushes hot and cold by turns, muscles swiftly losing strength except for my desperate grip on the marble. I couldn't let go of it even if I wanted to, my need so great, so overwhelming.

Harry fucks the breath out of me, standing and pulling until I am arched backward, held upright only by the grip cradling my throat with impossible strength. Another quick breath, driving back the bloody blackness of relief and release and then Harry is slamming into me. His breath grunts and groans around me, a tease of free, unrestricted life as I choke and wheeze, my teeth bared in a grimace through which the ghost of a breath slides through.

The whistle of that tiny thread of air tethers me to my body, to the panic and the ecstasy that tear me apart, carrying off pieces of my body until there is nothing left but the pulsating pleasure in my stomach and the screaming need in my chest. Harry leans in close, stops moving, grows silent. I scream in the silence, nothing escaping, my body numb and limp in his gentle, implacable embrace and then his hands grow impossibly tighter and even the whistling dies off. 

I slip into the pool of empty darkness that rushes up around me, pleasure rolling through me in massive, crushing waves. The last thing I feel is my hand finally going loose, the marble rolling from my palm.

I wake to the heavy, sticky slide of flesh against flesh and rough voices cursing. My eyes are heavy but I force them open, focusing blearily on the men a few feet from me. Nathan is on his back, nearly within arms reach of where I lay on my side. Harry is above him, eyes closed as he rocks down harder, face flushed and empty of thought. Nathan's hands are bruising Harry's thin hips, color flooding out from his grip in a brilliant wave. They fail to notice as I watch, still drifting on a tide of tingling sensation, my hand fumbling up slowly to touch the cold cloth against my throat, easing some of the soreness and swelling. I drift off again to the sight of them, my body and mind sated and at ease.


End file.
